


And these are not the eyes I saw with

by regshoe



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 19:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regshoe/pseuds/regshoe
Summary: At Ham Common, Bunny reminisces about the past, and gets an idea for a new story.





	And these are not the eyes I saw with

**Author's Note:**

> 'The Ides of March' was published in June 1898; according to the later stories, Bunny lives with Raffles at Ham Common from 1897-99. I thought it would be interesting to do something with this.

Having had both plenty of time and a pleasant atmosphere for writing in the short time we had been living at Ham Common, I had contrived to finish a little story—a tale of boarding-school life, a mere trifle but nonetheless one with which I was well pleased—and, having sent it off to a magazine which had published various of my scribblings in the past, I had now decided to take a few days’ rest. Thus it was that I wandered out along the river one cold morning, calm and free of care for the moment. Raffles was evidently plotting some scheme of his own for the forthcoming days, but had not yet reached the stage of telling me anything of his plans, and so I did not worry unduly about them. A fine silver mist had risen over the river during the night and now lay like a blanket over water and fields, muffling sight and sound alike, creating a little closed world that moved with me as I walked; the willow trees along the bank and the houses behind them first condensing into view from the grey shroud in front and then disappearing back into it behind me. It seemed scarcely conceivable that I was but a few miles from the City of London.

Such a peculiarly quiet, unworldly atmosphere is uniquely encouraging of reflection, and as I continued my walk I fell to thinking of days long ago. This coming March would be seven years since I had first been reunited with Raffles, and had taken up that life in which—for all that our current mode of living seemed so peaceful and innocent—we still existed. I thought back, now, to that fateful night. It was so long ago, and my own self a very remote figure from myself now, with seven long years and an unimaginable amount and variety of experience to separate us; yet the impressions of that night—the desperation, the horror and all the other equally strong emotions to which I had been subject—remained as strong and as vivid before me as if it had been but a few days. Such is the relation between memory and time.

It was often on walks such as this that I began to formulate ideas for new stories, and, as I reminisced in this way, such an idea was forming in my mind. Why, I thought, should I not write the story of my adventures with Raffles, in those old days in London? With such a store of memory to draw on I was tolerably certain I could make something good of it. I could begin by telling the story of that one night of March; it would do very well for one of my short pieces.

By the time I returned to our little cottage, the idea was fully formed in my mind, and I began that afternoon to sketch out a plan for the story. Although it was not easy to begin—the scene with which I must open the story necessarily being a painful one to revisit—once I had got over those first moments I found the words flowing easily to my pen and, within a few hours, the thing was finished.

*

‘You’ve been more than usually absorbed in this writing of yours for the last few days, my dear rabbit. Might I venture to ask what it is that’s so captivated you?’

He leaned over my shoulder, and I handed the first page of the manuscript up to him.

‘It is a memoir,’ I said. ‘You might recognise it.’

He was silent for a few moments, eyes scanning the lines of writing, and then the light began to dawn in his face. ‘But, Bunny, this is wonderful!’ he said slowly. ‘A marvellous joke!’

‘I’ll thank you to take my writing seriously, Arthur,’ I said, but I was smiling.

‘I assure you I am most serious. It is an excellent idea. May I read the rest of it?’

‘Of course,’ and I passed him the remaining pages.

*

I had thought, at first, that of course it would be absurd to think of publishing such a thing—ridiculous to draw attention, and perhaps suspicion, to myself in that way. As I read it over the next day, however, and made a few alterations and corrections, I could think only of what a shame it would be to let this story sit in a drawer unread by any other than its principal characters; it was certainly one of my better efforts—rather good, although I do say so myself. I sat back in my chair, the manuscript on the desk before me, and considered the problem. 

There was no possibility of writing under false names or presenting the story as fiction, for the public still remembered the notorious A. J. Raffles and would surely recognise an account of his crimes. Still, the appearance of a story about Raffles would not in itself be enough to make anyone doubt that he was really dead; and, for all that they remembered him, they did not remember Harry Manders, minor thief imprisoned in disgrace three years ago, and as long as I was discreet about publishing, no one would think to investigate my domestic circumstances. If I were to keep it entirely separate from the rest of my stories, use a different pen name, separate it also from my real self, well, then...

*

Raffles’s enthusiasm was not dimmed upon reading the complete story. ‘Of course you must publish it, Bunny,’ he said, over breakfast the next morning. ‘I very much look forward to the reaction it will get.’

I grimaced. ‘I’m rather hoping it won’t generate too much of a reaction.’

‘Why on earth would you? It’s magnificent, and it quite deserves to be lauded by all the reviewers who see it. No, no, we cannot have such obscurity.’

I blushed a little at this vehement approval, but the qualms remained. ‘I hardly think it wise to offer up such a confession of my crimes,’ I said.

‘Nonsense, Bunny, that is all quite in the past. You must publish. And, as I said, I am curious to see what the public will make of it. Do they remember me well enough to appreciate this revelation of the truth, I wonder?’ His tone was a little pensive.

‘Hardly that,’ I said, spreading marmalade on a piece of toast. ‘It’s to be a portrait of the infamous and very definitely dead A. J. Raffles, by one who knew him well, and will end there.’

‘The truth as it was, then,’ he said. ‘Seven years is a long time, after all, and who knows how far we might have gone since then—it will be merely a true history.’ He was smiling, but there was something else in the look, something almost wistful. I reached across the table to take his hand.

*

For my part, I feared that certain lines of what I had written were rather too much the truth as it had been. Perhaps I saw now too clearly in the familiar, almost comfortable knowledge of what, seven years ago, had been all the more keenly felt for being unrecognised; but of all the varied impressions of that night, the fascination in which Raffles had held me, the pull of that terrible glamour that had left me unable to revile his crime even as I saw the proof of it, seemed to come across clearer than any.

I could have regretted it. In any case, what I had felt then was transmuted into something far steadier and happier now. Even so, as I went through the manuscript again, crossing out a phrase here and there which I thought a little too strong for publication, that distant and unreachable past returned to me again. Nothing was now as it had been then; and yet the continuous thread between he who had stood upon the hearth-rug in the Albany rooms and sworn that he had gone irrevocably to the devil and would not go back, and he who had gone further by far than ever he had thought or hoped to, for the sake of the one to whom he had made that promise, could not be broken by any reach of time.

With an effort I pulled myself out of this reverie and returned to the task before me. Little by little, and after many rounds of editing, I reached a compromise with what qualms still persisted. I would keep the whole thing entirely separate from my real name, either attached to the story or within it—Raffles’s habitual use of my nickname made this easier than it might have been—and alter a few trivial details here and there, where necessary. My literary agent, Mr H—, knew a little of my history and would, I was sure, be sympathetic to my desire to avoid any association between this and my other, more innocent stories. And so my plan was made, and wanted only the final steps for its fulfilment. 

*

He accompanied me up to the post office to send off the manuscript—saying that he had been languishing inside for too long and could do with a brisk walk to shake off the cobwebs, but with a look that seemed somewhat to belie the words. It was another of those sharp, bitter mornings, with the mist lying over the meadows; but the glint of colour from the first few celandines beneath the hedgerows spoke of the spring to come. Raffles had walked on ahead of me to examine the little yellow flowers, and now turned back with a smile.

‘We shan’t have much more of this weather, I should think, Bunny.’

‘No.’ I was distracted; thinking, as I met his gaze, of how different the man before me now was from the one described in the pages I held under my arm. His white hair was a perfect reflection of the misty air around us. Seven years had changed much... I wondered, but did not ask, whether he had thought anything of the sort as he had read the thing.

Perhaps he had read something of my thoughts, however, for he frowned slightly at me as he waited for me to catch up—a familiar look. As I approached he stood up, and took my arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The sooner we’re there, the sooner we can get back into the warm.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the people at Raffles Redux for putting the setting and publication dates on the stories, and hence enabling me to notice the alignment of dates on which this fic is based!
> 
> The title is from The Charioteer by Mary Renault. It seemed appropriate.


End file.
